


cold morning light

by KeyDog (BannedBloodOranges)



Series: It's a big galaxy, Mr Scott [4]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Awkwardness, Coercion, Early In Relationships, Episode: s03e12 Plato's Stepchildren, F/F, F/M, Forced Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Kirk/Uhura, Non Explicit Intimacy, References to Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/F/M, Trust, Very minor Uhura/T'pring, Well needed fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/KeyDog
Summary: "They return to the ship in strange shapes, strange clothes, strange makeup.""Stay," She calls to Christine, and then, with a touch of tender heat; "Stay with us."After the events with the Platonians, Uhura receives (and gives) comfort.





	cold morning light

**Author's Note:**

> Non-profit fun only.
> 
> (But seriously, fuck the Platonians.)

The Captain is a handsome man, she'd be blind not to see it. His face has textured her nights in half recollections, alternations between Monty and Kirk, sometimes the both of them, above and under her. It is fantasy by osmosis, she knows, the galaxies seem so long and endless and the five years bring discovery but also short, female frustration, and the faces she sees each shift stitch into her subconscious. Even Christine, her darling friend, finds a way into her fantasy, tucked in waists and soft, wide thighs. She had tried to think once of sexless, stoic Mr Spock, whom she'd flirted with on a dare and a wink from Janice, but his face had melded into that of the Vulcan woman she'd spied on the viewing screen, a cool, savage loveliness that made her stomach ache, and she'd dreamed of red sands and high brows shimmered with starlight shadow.

Kirk is handsome, golden, and he holds her with the tenderness she has imagined, but beneath the trembling caress is the sick mortification that they are doing this, being made to do this; he is her Commanding Officer, her trusted colleague and friend. The safe, private spaces of her bedroom are incomparable to this cold reality, and she can see the sweat shimmering on his skin, the soft play of his tongue between his teeth in a performative show of arousal.

Her sensitive ears pick up Christine's pleading sobs mushed by the force of Spock's lips, and as she turns her head, she can see the twist of their twinned bodies, the hike of Spock's tunic above legs so long and skinny she instinctively thinks of her kid brothers, all their gangly limbs and light laughter, and she wants home suddenly, wants all the familiarities and comforts of earth that a whimper rises in her, threatening to break, but she will not cry, not give these the monsters the satisfaction. She had felt her tears at Spock's song, for a thing she loved so completely, a gift they shared as friends, music turned into torture. Spock's throat had convulsed with his reluctance to hold back the words, the notes coming out in a dull keen. It had been pitiful.

Spock pushes Christine below him. The tunic hikes higher as the Platonians force him to adjust himself, but he is visibly unaroused. A stab of revulsion threatens her stomach, bile rising quick and fast, and she averts her eyes, even as Christine's cry is forced into a moan. 

"Christine!" She calls. Kirk pulls her close, sliding his hands over her bare arms and back, his face gentle, stunned, enraged all at once. Gentle for her, enraged for their humiliation, stunned by his helplessness. "I'm here, Christine. Don't be afraid."

It's a pretty lie, and she tells it so she can feel stronger, but a hiss emerges from the crowd and it is as if a fist is shoved into her throat, manipulating the words from her vocal cords and dragging them out into the open.

"I'm so frightened, Captain," she whispers, gasps. _ For Christine, _she thinks resolutely. _And if I can sit behind you on the bridge, and not think about your breath on my face, your hands on my legs and back. _

"That's how they want you to feel," Kirk is proud, powerful. He holds her closer, both protective and reluctant. "Makes them feel alive. Try _ not..." _

His expression is almost comical, the skin under his chin pushed up as he glowers down, teeth jammed shut. "...to think of them, Uhura."

"I'm thinking of all the times of the Enterprise when I was scared to death, and I would see you so busy at your command..." He ducks his head down suddenly, but she turns her cheek, and their skin slides together, and she can feel it, his body in half response, the lift of it against her clothed thigh, and his convulsion as he tries to press away, horror and heat and shame, but she doesn't hate him. Her body tingles and her breath keeps hitching and she is slick beneath the awful silk and she hates it, hates _them _for what they are making them do. Her words keep coming, as much to soothe him as herself. "...and I would hear your voice from all parts of the ship, and my fears would fade..." The muscles in her neck cramp as she resists, as they force them together, her hand hanging in the air between them, settling on his face and shoulder. "...and now, they are making me tremble."

The intensity gathers. His eyes no longer dart or glare, but focus, quivering, on her lips. She mimics the action as if clock mechanics have been wired into her head, lips, eyes; so all she can see is his broad neck, his lips full and shining and the boyish curl of his hair drooped onto his forehead.

"I am not afraid," she declares. It is the last piece of power she can afford, and the spectators laugh even then, but she needs it, to say it. "I am _not _ afraid."

Her resolve cracks as his arms wrap around her, dipping her in a mock romantic embrace, and she tries to feel safe. This is her _Captain _and her _friend_ and she trusts him.

The kiss is dry and unremarkable, but that is not the point. Their tormentors don't want real passion. They want the thrill of forced consent, the puppet string powerplay, all the pantomimes of love that they cannot know, cannot feel, for if anyone knew of love the way she did, who could inflict such cruelties?

The kiss holds too long, until they struggle to breathe, until all tenderness becomes oppressive, crushing.

* * *

They return to the ship in strange shapes, strange clothes, strange makeup. Any hysteria that had started to split the cheeks of the transporter crew halt at the warning look in the Captain's eye, the drooping shoulders of Christine (Uhura holds her hand so tight it hurts. She wants Christine to squeeze back, to straighten up, some tiny show of _alright_.)

Scotty stands as stone, lips clamped tight and trembling. He grips the transporter panel as if he could crack it with his bare hands. His scrutiny is almost too much to bear, and she cannot have it right now, _not now_, love.

Uhura's lipstick is sticky on her cheek, the sheen of it spoils on the Captain's upper lip. They all look ridiculous, in togas and laurels and heavy satins that lick the ground each time she walks. That awful dress, mauve and bejewelled, stained with her nervous sweat; she'll bundle it up and burn it, given half the chance. McCoy is lingering nearby, the only one still in the dignity of uniform, and she can already see the procedures unfolding in the following weeks, an emotional root canal hidden behind papers she needs to sign and date, type out testimonies in clinical, cautious language. Isn't it enough she just wants a shower, wants to scrape off her skin in soap and suds and then crawl into bed, and not cry for all the humiliation of it?

McCoy watches Spock most of all, concern bagged under his eyes. Spock is standing rigid, stiff, arms hanging by his sides. He glances at her before he draws his glance to the shimmer on the Captain's cheek, and the centre of his eyes blacken like a peach pip.

"Come on, Nyota," Christine's professionalism has always been a saving grace. "Let's go and get cleaned up."

McCoy takes a step forward.

"Now wait one moment, ladies..."

"Bones," The Captain focuses, for a brief moment, on Uhura. There is a comfort in the distant, professional care of the order. They've reerected their shields, slid command and protocol safely back. He looks away. "Let them go."

With Christine in hand, they pass the transporter.

Scotty _moves. _

In front of the Captain, he catches her shoulders and turns her toward him. His eyes are burnt with the embers of panic; he opens his mouth, closes it.

The Captain clears his throat.

Monty glares at Kirk; the look on his face is awful, naked in its accusation. His gaze darts to the Captain's lip and Kirk swallows, speechless.

"Mr Scott," She places her hand on his arm. "You are away from your post."

They are professionals. Book of regulations is their bible, now their safety net. As of now, she needs that distance and order more than she needs his protectiveness, his fierce love. The woman instead of her wails but she quiets it with an internal _later. _

He gazes at her, at the steadiness of her face, and like that, he collects himself, steps away, and returns to his place on the transporter. Uhura manages a half-smile and flees with Christine.

* * *

They scrub each other's faces like schoolgirls, unpick the pins from their hair, wash out the scruff of oils and lotions, peel off the silver nail varnish until all is left is sparkle cut into the cuticle. They strip each other bare, scrunch up the dresses and throw them down the rubbish chute. Christine, now prim and organised, runs a scanner over their bodies as they lie together on the bed like children.

"Did the whip strike you?" She asks, hovering over her arms.

"No," The press of the Captain's fingers still haunt her skin. "He managed to get his control back by then."

There are no marks on either on them. Christine checks the scanner, tears beginning to unfold fat and fierce from her eyes. Now they are alone, wrapped in towels with hair frizzed from the shower, can Uhura reach for her, kiss her face in that strange go-between between platonic and not.

"Mr Scott will be coming to see you, soon." Christine chokes out, managing a wobbly smile. She sits up, gathering her things."His shift will be finished in twenty minutes."

Christine's sweet envy is obvious. She has no-one, except McCoy, who treats her with the compassion of a Doctor, and not of a friend.

"Christine..." Uhura swings her legs off the bed. Christine hovers by the door. "Stay," She adds, and then, with a touch of tender heat; "Stay with _us." _

* * *

When Monty takes Christine on the bed, he does so with the consideration of a man in uncharted territory. He'd shimmered himself down when he'd seen Uhura with her hands caught through Christine's hair; a shy invitation hidden in the crook of her smile. It never fails to amaze her how he can shield his furies, dampen angry passion for kindness, for anyone in clear need. He has always kept his calm whenever he has the comm, and in those moments, it is as if Sulu and Chekov and herself feel closer, magnetised to the centre of the bridge when he occupies the chair. It is different from their two superior officers. They have trusted Spock and are armed with gut-deep loyalty for Kirk, but with Scotty they all feel like equals, for he is open to each of their questions and concerns, passing it through the air with the bounce of conversation. For a communications officer, it's a dream. Scotty hides nothing and shares everything. This is why she loves him, she thinks (and it must be becoming love, surely. After today, when she sees how brutal people can be.)

He murmurs into Christine's neck, says she is a _good, _deserving woman, and kisses down her stomach until he reaches between her legs, as Uhura swallows her cry with a kiss. Christine, shy and lovely Christine, actually tries to kiss her back, slipping her hand over the nape of her neck (and maybe she loves Christine too, her dear friend, a sister spirit.) 

When Monty rolls Uhura, she urges him with her heels pushed into his back, a silent order, and he swears under his breath, takes her fast and hard, and Christine's pupils dilate at the sight (Uhura kisses her, slides her fingers down and below Christine's stomach, mapping out the warmth, the raw comfort of it all.)

* * *

"I could 'ave swung at the C'ptain," Scotty growls into her neck. All three of them, lying in the dark. Christine asleep, her arms held tight in Uhura's side, closed into her thighs and breasts, almost as if she is trying to slip into her bones. "When he came up, all beamin' with yer lipstick..."

"Monty," She silences him with her finger. "He was mortified. We both are." She pauses, tastes the salt of him and Christine on her tongue. "We comforted each other. It was all we could do."

"Hmph." His broad shoulders swivel in the dark. She hugs his waist, kissing the back of his neck. "So he'll say, I bet. Aye, the look on Mr Spock's face..."

He trails off. It is a subject they haven't broached, even as it glares obvious from each part of the ship. But it is not her business, and she feels they have all suffered enough indignities to be victims to shallow ship gossip.

"He's our Captain, Monty," She does not accuse. The shock is yet to sink in, but she'll ride that ugly wave when it finally emerges from her sleepy mind, where the reports wait to be filled in in the acrid light of the PaDD. But she will not revisit it, not now. This is their moment, for them; all of them. "He did what he could to protect us, and we, in turn, tried..."

She cracks, a threadbare break in her voice.

"Ny." The sheets shuffle and slide about them as he arranges himself, cupping her face in his oiled hands. "Oh Ny, my darlin'. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Monty..." She sucks it all back in; one deep inhale. "...please, not tonight. Just..."

"I know, m'eudail," He cuddles her hard, close. Amongst the trembling quiet and her ceasing sobs, he whispers into her hairline. _"Love you, lassie. Love you so much."_

It's the first time he's said it, and it's as if the dawn has broken the dark, and it lights her, from her eyes to the tips of her toes, and she laughs, warm and a little broken, and she sees the stir of joy in his eyes, and more than that, the surprise.

_Yes,_ she thinks dreamily. _He must do, in his way._

Christine curls in tighter. Nyota entwines their fingers, memorizes the shudder of Christine's breath on the bone of her back, and up at Monty, she smiles.

It is a reality unmatched, even in her dreams, and she feels, finally, safe.


End file.
